FLIPKA

Chapter 20, Part One

The callbacks Creamo had expected the night before came while we were eating breakfast, and like a good and trusty hound, he immediately rose to take them. By the time he returned, his eggs (sunnyside up) looked as appetizing as puddles of yellow plastic, but he picked at them anyway, as he grumbled. Preliminary analysis of the tire treads led to a plant in Chicago specializing in custom tires for military vehicles: large-scale, four-wheel drive trucks. “There aren’t any military bases within 500 miles!” he grumbled. 

“How about all those boyfriends?”

“Dead ends. So far. There could always be one we don’t know about.” 

“How about Dr. Gnecht? Did you get any news back about him?” 

Creamo scowled. He liked his mysteries to be straightforward and not filled with underground caves, whacky biologists, and girlish folderol. He eyeballed the rigid piece of bacon in his hand and then gave me his steno pad. “Look for yourself,” he said, “if you can read my writing.”

Alexander Lucian Gnecht, PhD. 15 y w/ Dept of Agr, Pubs/Sc Amer/ Natl Geo (bats disords.) Black-filed. 

“So he does actually work for the government. Will wonders never cease?” I sighed. “What does ‘black-filed’ mean?” 

“It’s a term the feds sometimes use to describe an internal investigation,” Creamo explained. “He must have gone rogue and that’s why the FBI is here.”

“I wonder why the department sent out a couple of interns to work with him if he was under investigation. Any mention of when he was black-filed?” I asked.

“Evidently that information is in the goddamned black file.”

“Figures. No psych?”

“Yeah, but you had that one nailed—no family, no friends, several referrals for counseling, the whole shebang. They’re going to send us a fax as soon as the secretary gets into the office. Dimwits can’t figure out how to use the machine,” he chuckled, looking over at me impishly. “There was something interesting about your buddy Winnie Peterson, née Ralston.”

“Yeah?”

“I think you’re in for a surprise.” 

“Please—no suspense. Just spit it out.”

“Read—it’s on the next page.” 

He watched me flip the page, chuckling at my expression when I’d finished reading. “See. Not what you expected I bet.”

“Don’t be silly—I’m a trained psychiatrist!”

“And I’m an ex-cop.”

“So the sheriff has to be lying.”

“It would seem so.”

“I mean, he has been living in these parts for awhile, right?”

“Yup. That’s what he claims.”

“Shall we call him on it?”

“Not unless you want to hear another line of bull.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked. “If you want my opinion . . .”

“No thanks—you’re leaving town, right?”

“You should try to track down the three girls Winnie Peterson says she released. Come on, it should be easy enough to contact the mental hospital.” He ignored me. I continued anyway. “And I’m pretty sure the crazy old coot at the store in Steptoe is Leticia Honeywell’s grandfather. If you can track down at least two, one of them should lead you to Meredith Hyman, if indeed she did escape.”